


chapter two, I fell in love with you

by ktlsyrtis, lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis/pseuds/ktlsyrtis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: S.W. Campbell writes about romance and love better than anyone, but it’s not until she writes a bodice ripper about two women that she captures the attention of Bernie Wolfe, stationed in Afghanistan. She falls in love with the author photo on the back of her novel, and S.W. Campbell finds herself intrigued by a beautiful blonde at a book-signing. Will it be just a chance meeting or a romance novel ending?





	chapter two, I fell in love with you

**Author's Note:**

> lavenderseaslug: i love writing with jess and am glad that she puts up with me long enough to get these projects done
> 
> ktlsyrtis: partnering with Beth makes me a better writer and a better friend, and I'm very lucky I get to have her in my life

_Beau’s skin ripples in the low candlelight, sweat gleaming, and Sam finds herself licking her lips unconsciously, her hands already moving with the urge to reach out and touch him, to feel those muscles beneath her fingers._

_He groans at her touch, eyes burning and body taut. “Sam,” he says, voice trembling with restraint, “we can’t.”_

_“Why not?” She looks up at him with large, innocent eyes and pushes herself against him. She wants this, he wants this, and there’s nothing that can stop her._

_Strong hands grip her arms, crushing her against Beau’s hard chest. Sam can hardly catch her breath as he slowly lowers his head, lips so close that she can almost…_

"Wolfe! We've got incoming, ETA 30 minutes."

Bernie jerks upright, scrambling to hide the dog-eared paperback beneath her pillow as the door slams open, only to have it slip from her hands and skid across the dusty floor.

It doesn't stop until it hits Alex's feet, and she picks it up, a wry smile on her face. "Some light reading, eh?" she says, flipping through it, though from the cover, there's no mistaking the kind of story inside.

Heat climbs Bernie's neck as she swings her legs out of her bunk, reaching beneath for her boots. "It's just something I picked up at the airport," she says, focused on tying her laces, hoping against hope that Alex will just let the whole thing drop.

But it's Alex, so she doesn't. They've been through too much, are far too close, and the second she opens her mouth, Bernie prepares for the light ribbing that will be Alex's constant refrain until the next embarrassing thing happens. "A little well-worn for a silly airport paperback," Alex says, tossing the book at Bernie, testing her reflexes, but she's fast enough to drop her laces and grab the book from the air, stuffing it under her pillow in one smooth motion.

"I wouldn't have taken you for the bodice ripper type, Bern." Alex leans close, jostles against Bernie's shoulder as they make their way through the ordered chaos of camp. Bernie squints against the sun, the heat, still never entirely adjusted to it no matter how long she's out in the Afghan desert.

"Haven't worn a bodice in my entire life," Bernie says back, elbowing Alex in the stomach, a little harder than she means to, but Alex takes it well enough.

"A camo-ripper then," Alex amends, earning a laugh from Bernie, the half-bark she does to stop the full goose honk from letting loose.

Bernie just shrugs, takes the teasing. She doesn't think she can properly explain it to Alex, can hardly explain it to herself. The first book _had_ been bought in an airport, on a layover headed out on tour. She'd fought with Marcus before she'd left, argued about her dedication to the RAMC, her prioritizing her job over seeing her children grow, and had found herself at loose ends, pacing the newsagent in search of a distraction.

The book was shelved backwards, the cover and title not even visible. What was visible was the smiling black and white photograph of the author, beaming up at her next to the blurb. She looked so kind, so friendly, a potential kindred spirit in the midst of all the mess, and Bernie bought the book, didn't even read the title until she got to her gate, blushed at the scantily clad couple on the cover, a man and a woman in an embrace, _The Vintner's Sister_ written in embossed silver lettering.

She’d considered tossing it in the bin, but her flight was about to board and she had nothing else to hand, so she tucked it in her rucksack, pulled it out again after the drinks cart passed. Romance may not be her genre, but she found something engaging about S.W. Campbell’s writing, ended up working her way through two thirds of the book on that flight, engrossed by the surprisingly empathetic characters.

She found herself anxious to finish, stuffing it in her rucksack, hiding the book under her pillow when she got to base, waiting for the moment when she could be alone. And she still remembers the thrill when she turned to the back page and the list of _Other Works by this Author_. A whole host of new titles to look for, new things to read.

It’s become a habit since then. Marcus drops her at the airport and she sees him and the kids off with increasingly awkward hugs and kisses, stands at the curb until the car pulls away, then as soon as she’s through security she ducks into the nearest newsagent, heads straight to the romance section and snags the next book.

She thinks the girl behind register recognizes her by now, a small smile on her lips when Bernie appears, the slight flush on her face when she slides the romance novel across the counter. And now she’s here, almost at the end of Campbell’s oeuvre, trying to come up with a way to explain this compulsion. It’s more than just some silly romance novels now, she knows the characters, knows their lives. It’s a tether to something, even if she doesn’t quite know what it is she’s being tied to.

Her favorite novels travel with her on tour, get more and more dogeared with each trip to various far flung RAMC camps. While she looks forward to each new book, she comes back to these like old friends, finds comfort in revisiting the familiar words, the well-loved plots.

She knows the face on the back cover just as well, those dark sparkling eyes, the hair that changes through the years. S.W. Campbell is beautiful, elusive, spinning worlds out from her mind, and Bernie thinks of her as a travel companion, finds her thoughts drifting to imagined scenarios where they talk about her latest ideas over wine and candlelight.

It’s those imaginings that have been giving her pause more and more of late, an uncomfortable twisting feeling in her stomach at the realization that she spends more time having imagined conversations with her favorite author than she does missing her husband. She brushes the thought away at first, explains it to herself as a harmless fantasy, a way to cope with the stress of her work, of being away from home. But once it’s there the thought keeps returning, lingering longer in her mind. She starts to notice how little the grand romances in the books resemble her own marriage, her feelings for Marcus. Bernie knows life is nothing like the opulent worlds that spin out on the pages, but surely there should be _some_ grain of truth there. Some emotion that she can recognize in herself, in her relationship.

She bites her lip as she squints against the sun, looking at Alex. Maybe it’s okay that Alex has seen the book, maybe it’s the opening she’s been looking for to talk about it all. She can imagine Alex’s answer, her usual dismissal of Marcus and insistence that Bernie can, and should, do better.

The sound of vehicles rumbling through the gates of camp shatters her line of thought, reminds her that now is hardly the time. She and Alex break into a jog, minds focusing on the work ahead, on the the lives they’re here to save.

It’s later, when her hair is still damp from her shower, washing the muck and grime and blood off her body, and she’s sitting on the edge of her bunk, drumming her fingers against the metal edge, thinking about what she might say to Alex. She’s not one for conversations, for just laying everything out in the open. It’s harder, scarier, worse than anything she’s done in her life.

Alex pushes into the tent, dark hair still dripping, a towel slung around her neck, walks over to the cot across from Bernie’s and drops onto it with a tired sigh. One hand lifts the towel to tousle her hair, soaking up the excess moisture, a slight frown creasing her brow.

“What’s up, Bern? You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”

“Uh,” she says, worrying her lip some more. Alex sits, mirroring Bernie’s position, their knees almost touching, and she looks into Bernie’s eyes, her own piercing, searching. “Is this about the book? Bernie, I don’t care about what you read. If it makes you happy...” Alex trails off with a shrug. “It’s about the book but...” Bernie wishes, not for the first time, that she had a little bit more eloquence about her. She wishes she had S.W. Campbell’s way with words. “I think my marriage isn’t working,” is what she finally says, the words spilling out into the open, falling between them.

Alex’s eyes soften and she reaches across the space between them, her hand warm on Bernie’s knee. “I’m sorry, Bern. I know I give you guff about Marcus, but it can’t be easy.” Bernie looks down, damp strands of hair falling across her eyes, focuses on Alex’s hand instead of the sympathy in her gaze. “Do you think he’s found someone else?”

Bernie stiffens at that - the thought never crossed her mind. She wants to make things easier, ask why Alex might think that, escape from the truths of this conversation, but she shakes her head instead. “I just think there’s something missing. Maybe it’s always been missing. You know those books I read? They’re always so in love and there’s just....something. A spark, I don’t know. I don’t think I feel that with him.”

She squirms a little under Alex’s consideration, silently willing her friend to understand what she’s saying, even if she’s not entirely sure of it herself. Silence sits heavy between them in the tent, Alex seeming to consider her words carefully. “Sometimes people just fall out of love, I suppose. Being apart so much has to be hard.” She pauses, her fingers squeezing slightly on Bernie’s knee. “Or is this more than that?”

She can feel an embarrassing wetness at the corner of her eyes and she swipes the back of her hand at the tears she desperately doesn’t want to shed. “You know how...you are?” Bernie asks, because she’s never said the words out loud, hasn’t even had the courage to put a name to it in her own thoughts. Alex’s hand squeezes again, her thumb rubbing slightly. “Me too,” she finishes lamely, making herself look at Alex, shrugging, wet droplets from her hair dampening her shoulders.

“Oh Bern,” Alex says, voice suddenly thick. She leans forward, pulling Bernie into an awkward hug and Bernie chokes back a sob, fear and a sort of giddy sense of freedom making her heart race.

“Want to hear something truly embarrassing?” Bernie asks, her words muffled against Alex’s shoulder.

“More embarrassing than those books?” Alex asks and Bernie lets out a weak chuckle, another sniffle.

“I think more about the author photo on the back of those books than I do about Marcus,” Bernie says, and before she can stop her, Alex is leaning across her, pulling the book out from under Bernie’s pillow. She whistles low.

“Good taste, Bernie,” she says, patting Bernie’s knee. “My first crush was Marianne Faithfull.” Bernie snorts at that, but knows she had a few of her records growing up, can picture her lovely face and blonde hair.

Bernie flops back on her bunk, mind racing with what it means to have said it out loud, to have admitted something she’s been too afraid to confront her whole life. “God, Alex. What am I going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Alex says, and Bernie can hear her rustling around in her things. “But maybe give this a read.” She tosses a book at Bernie, it lands on her stomach and she convulses slightly, grappling at the paperback with her hands. It's the new S.W. Campbell book, the one she couldn’t find at the airport. 

“You read her too?” Bernie asks incredulously.

“Not like you do, but I heard about this one, thought I’d give it a read. There might be a storyline in there you’ll like.” There’s a significance to her tone that Bernie isn’t quite sure she likes, but it’s a new book, and she’s been taught never to look a gift horse anywhere, so she just runs her fingers over the raised letters of the title: _An Awakening Spirit_.

When Bernie finally gets a chance to start the book a few days later, it becomes quickly apparent why Alex was interested, the secondary plot of the book revolving around Samantha Crawford’s sister, Emily, and her relationship to the new partner at her law firm, Sidney. Antagonism grudgingly turns to respect, then friendship, and Bernie hears echoes of her own thoughts as Emily and Sidney grow closer. She feels like a little girl again, staying up late reading by torchlight in her bunk, but she can’t make herself put the book down. 

She can’t stop reading when Emily starts to think about Sidney, about her thick, beautiful titian hair, about the freckles that dot her nose. Emily imagines what it might be like to reach out and brush Sidney’s smooth cheek, finds herself reaching out to catch a fallen eyelash, holding it out for Sidney to make a wish on, memorizing the way her lips purse as she blows the eyelash away. And when Emily haltingly confesses her innermost thoughts to her sister, all Bernie can think of is the conversation she had with Alex.

Tears prick her eyes as Sam embraces Emily, tells her that she loves her no matter what, that all she wants is for her to be happy. Bernie may still be uncertain what to do next, but she knows that her story won’t go the same way, that the road ahead will be far more painful for her and her family. What she does know, with a sudden, fierce certainty, is that _this_ is what she wants, the joy and passion that practically radiates off the page when Emily kisses Sidney for the first time, when they fall into bed together. It’s everything that Bernie’s experience of love isn’t, and the thought of finding something even close makes her heart ache with longing.

She reads and rereads those pages, the feelings never abating, the words still stirring things up within her. When Alex catches her reading it for the fifth time, she laughs. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” is all she says, batting at one of Bernie’s feet.

As the end of her tour approaches, Bernie starts to think about what to say to Marcus, how to say it, wishes she could just use the words that Emily uses, but doesn’t think Marcus would find any comfort if she told him that she’d found love, happiness, everything she wanted, in the arms of another woman.

The skies of Holby are slate grey when she steps out of the airport, the air so damp it’s almost suffocating after the dryness of the Afghan desert. She sees Marcus wave from the car, shifts her rucksack more firmly on her shoulder and pushes down the surge of nervousness as she walks toward him.

“Where are the kids?” She asks, accepting his perfunctory kiss to the cheek, hugging him with one arm, trying not to let the discomfort she feels show.

“At home,” Marcus says, and all Bernie can think is how he hasn’t asked how she is or offered to take her bag. He doesn’t act like any of the suitors in the novels she reads, no chivalry present whatsoever. She doesn’t know if it never existed or if she trained it out of him, never letting him help her. She tries hard not to let the guilt and blame overwhelm her as she smiles weakly at her husband.

The ride home is awkward as they each try to make stilted conversation, the distance that’s grown between them becoming more painfully apparent with each passing moment. Eventually Bernie just closes her eyes, pretends to be asleep as her mind churns through what she needs to say, how she’s going to explain this to Marcus, to their kids.

She lets Marcus open the front door, isn’t even sure that she has house keys on her anymore. “Welcome home!” Her children explode in a cheerful chorus, beaming faces greeting her. Bernie drops her bag to the floor, wraps her kids in a hug and tries to memorize this moment as the last bit of normalcy they might have together.

Things are easier with the kids as a buffer and they laugh and chat as a family over dinner. Bernie soaks it all in, listening as Cameron talks about the shenanigans of his med school classmates, Charlotte bemoaning her upcoming exams, filled with the familiar mixture of guilt and pride that overcomes her when she sees the adults her children have become, how much of their growth has happened without her.

Adults they are, and they both excuse themselves after dinner, have their own lives to get back to. Bernie hugs each of them tightly, wishing there was something she could say to warn them, but she knows she needs to talk to Marcus first. This is going to be hard enough, the last thing she wants is for it to turn into a family domestic.

They settle on the sofa, an easy routine, television the escape they both use as a way to fill time and silence. But as Marcus reaches for the remote, Bernie stills his hand with her own, and he looks up at her touch, surprise on his face, a sure sign as any that intimacy has fled from their marriage.

“We need to talk,” she says, curses the wavering in her voice. “There’s something I need to tell you.” She takes a deep breath, turns slightly so she’s facing him more fully. “We’re not happy, Marcus. And...and I know why I’m not. I think,” she fumbles with the words, the lines she’d practiced flying from her brain. “I think I like women,” she says, realizes it’s the first time she’s said it aloud, verbalized the thing she’s been scared of, the thing she wants most.

She can see Marcus’ eyebrow raise, his mouth open, and she hears the question she was warned by Alex that all men ask, before it even leaves his lips. “I don’t like men,” she says hurriedly.

Bernie braces herself as Marcus silently processes the revelation, an incomprehensible flurry of emotions showing on his pale face. Unexpectedly she thinks of him when they first met, quiet and studious with an easy smile and a quirky sense of humor, the closest friend she’d ever had. This feels like rectifying a mistake she made the moment she accepted his proposal, and she finds the only thing she can regret is hurting the man who once meant so much to her.

“I love you,” she says, a little desperately, because she doesn’t want him to think there’s no foundation, that what they built together was based on a lie. “As a friend, though. You were my best friend. I’ll always love you for that.” She reaches for Marcus’ hand again but he pulls away, his face finally settling on anger as he stands, takes a step away from the couch, from Bernie.

“I don’t understand.” She can hear the bewilderment behind his anger. “This is ridiculous, Bern. You can’t be _gay_ ,” he spits the word and Bernie recoils a little as if struck. “We have kids, for god’s sake!”

 _Gay_. The word sits there, the word she hasn’t given herself yet, thrown at her by Marcus, by her husband, by one of the few people she’s trusted the longest. “I just didn’t know,” she says, her voice small and she feels unsure of herself, of how to convince someone else of the things she is so sure of in her heart.

He laughs bitterly, a sharp noise that pierces Bernie to the core. “Well, this explains why you were always so quick to abandon me and the kids. Couldn’t get away fast enough each time you came home.” Marcus’ eyes turn suspicious, cold, almost none of the man she married left there. “Is there some woman out there in the desert? Is that who you were leaving us for?”

“No, Marcus. No.” Bernie feels like she’s been slapped, that he would think so little of her. He’s a stranger to her in this moment, and all she wants is to be away from him. “I just want to be honest with you.” She’s pleasing now, trying to find the person she said vows to, trying to reach him, hoping it’s enough.

Some of the anger leeches out of him at that. He slumps into the nearest chair like a puppet with his strings cut, hands hanging limp on his knees. Bernie’s never wanted to hurt him, and even though she knows he won’t believe that now she can’t help but reach out to take his hand. “Marcus…” 

He pulls back as if scalded, fast enough that Bernie startles, jumping a bit. “I want you out of this house.” The words are thick with pain and anger, everything Bernie wishes she could shield him from. She opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off with a sharp “Go.”

Bernie moves out two days later. There’s a stilted conversation with her children, where Charlotte and Cam look at her with wide eyes and open mouths. Charlotte’s face hardens and she leaves the room. Cam just gives her the half-smile he inherited from the Wolfes and says he has to look after his sister.

And then Bernie is left alone in her kitchen, words unsaid, problems unsolved.

Marcus is similarly silent as she packs her things, doesn’t seem interested in talking this through, hearing any of the explanations Bernie has been rehearsing for weeks. She pauses at the front door, glancing back at her family home, at Marcus slumped at the kitchen table, and wishes she knew how to make this less painful for them all.

Without a word, she turns away, the door closing behind her.

There’s a strange feeling of freedom and sorrow that twines around heart as she loads her bags into the boot of the waiting cab. She looks at the house, the place she helped make a home, for what she thinks might be the last time. She sends Alex a text, wishes her friend was here beside her.

She splashes out on a nice hotel, figures she’s earned a little pampering until she figures out what comes next, sinks into the large tub with two fingers of whiskey from the mini bar. Sitting in the warmth and silence, the emotion of it all finally overwhelms her and she cries like she hasn’t since she was a child, until her head is sore and her skin feels tight and raw.

When she wakes in the morning, foggy head and salt-crusted eyelashes, Bernie makes herself think about what’s next, pulls together a resume, a list of hospitals in the area. She looks at the the Holby Gazette, pages to classifieds for the open flat listings, lets her eyes drift over the news stories, mostly local interest pieces she’s not invested in. But then her breath catches in her throat as she turns a page and sees a familiar pair of eyes sparkling up at her, a beautiful smile she knows well. “Book-signing with S.W. Campbell” says the bold print below the photo, and Bernie knows, feels certain of something for the first time since her life went through an upheaval. She will meet the woman who changed her life.

Just the act of tapping the date of the event into the calendar of her phone buoys her spirits, having something to look forward to reminds her that she does have a future on the other side of all the pain. A sense of lightness fills her as she dials estate agents, books viewings for a couple of the more promising flats.

She’s not superstitious enough to think there are signs or fate or some overarching plan - she hopes her life would be working out a little more smoothly if there’s someone upstairs pulling the strings - but it does seem that from the moment she sees her favorite author’s picture in the paper, things start to fall into place.

By the end of the week she’s signed the lease on a small but charming one bedroom flat in a part of town with several good pubs and a park across the lane, and phone calls to some of her old acquaintances have gotten her in the process of taking locum work at the local hospitals.

The day finally comes. 

She arrives what she thinks is a reasonable amount ahead of time, is surprised by the queue that’s already formed at the back of the store. It makes her feel a bit foolish, but she’s never really thought about what kind of a following S.W. Campbell has, the reality that there are other people, mostly women from the look of the crowd, whose lives she may have touched like she has Bernie’s.

Her well-worn copy of _An Awakening Spirit_ clutched in her hands, she takes a place at the back of the line and tries to calm her hammering heart.

The latest Campbell book gleams up from the shelves all around, stacks adorning the tables, easy to grab from the queue, and so Bernie does, a hefty hardback, and for the first time, she takes in the cover. Instead of the usual rugged man grasping the waist of a beautiful women, there are two women on the cover, looking at each other, hands intertwined. Bernie feels her heart speed up as she opens the book, reads the blurb on the inside cover, a whole story about Sidney and Emily, just the two of them.

Tears unexpectedly fill her eyes and she has to stare up at the ceiling for a long moment before her vision clears. Around her the queue starts to shuffle forward, ladies of all ages chattering excitedly as they file into the rows of folding chairs set in front of a long table, piled high at one end with more copies of the book.

Bernie’s seat is near the back, and she thanks her height and her long torso, letting her see over all the women in front of her. She cranes her neck slightly, sits up with far better than her usual posture. When S.W. Campbell appears, walking to the microphone set up in front of the assembled crowd, she’s different than Bernie thought. Her hair is short, threaded with grey, and her neck is beautiful, elegant. Bernie can see for the first time the pendant that hangs from the necklace chain she’s seen in every photo, a beautiful silver drop. This Campbell woman is different than Bernie thought, not because she doesn’t match her photo or anything like that, but because she looks so real, so vibrant, so pretty that it makes Bernie stop breathing for a moment. The flush of her cheeks, the dimple in her chin, the creases around her mouth. Bernie thinks she could stare at her forever. And when she opens her lips to speak, Bernie’s not even sure she hears the words, just the sound of that smooth, low voice, the husky tones that can now populate the conversations of her daydreams.

Her way with words extends beyond the page and Bernie can tell she’s not the only one enthralled as she talks about her experiences in the industry, her writing process. All too soon the talk comes a close and they shuffle back into a queue that snakes past the table.

Bernie feels overcome as she nears the front of the line, as she can see the bowed head of her favorite author, can catch her smile as she hands books to happy customers. She’s alive and real and in front of Bernie before she knows it, and Bernie can’t think of a single thing to say. Instead, embarrassingly, her eyes again fill with tears. 

“What’s wrong?” S.W. Campbell says, and those are the first words she ever speaks to Bernie, her wide, friendly eyes filled with concern.

“Nothing,” Bernie chokes out, chastising herself. “It’s just...it’s just an honor to meet you.” She smiles, blinks back the tears and holds out her worn copy of _An Awakening Spirit_. “I know you’ve got a new book, and I’m buying that too, but I’m hoping you might sign this one for me instead. It...means a lot to me.”

Their fingers brush as she hands over the book and Bernie thinks her heart may beat right out of her chest. “I don’t think there’s any higher compliment as an author than a well-read copy of one of my books.” She flips open the cover, brown eyes sparkling as she looks up at Bernie. “Who should I make this out to?”

“B-Bernie.” She stumbles over her own name and tries to laugh it off, but knows she can’t hide the flush rising on her cheeks. “Bernie Wolfe.”

She watches as the black marker touches the title page, writes her name in careful penmanship. “To Bernie Wolfe - it’s an honor to meet you too. - Serena”

 _Serena_. The first name she never knew. It suits the woman in front of her, and she’s smiling a little bashfully as she hands the book back to Bernie. “Don’t tell,” she says in a low voice, winking quickly, surreptitiously, and Bernie feels her heart flop sideways again.

“Thank you,” is all she can think of to say, knows she’ll never be able to relay all the gratitude she feels. She moves aside, lets the line move forward, can’t find an excuse to linger any longer. She can picture Serena’s face in her mind, her voice in her ears, and thinks it might just be enough to sustain her.

-

Serena's eyes linger on the lanky blonde woman as she walks away, long enough that the next person in line has to clear her throat to get her attention. Shaking herself a bit, she smiles invitingly and takes the book that's held out to her. "Who would you like me to make this out to?"

Before tonight, Serena would've said she was fed up with book-signings, with rote messages penned in books, her scrawling signature across the title page. But something is different, feels different. The women who are coming up with books in their hands and smiling, hopeful faces, they're different too. This book means more to people, she thinks. 

It makes all the fighting she had to do to get it published feel worth it. The world may be growing more tolerant, but she discovered quickly that the world of romance novel publishing is significantly behind the times, especially when faced with the idea of a story about two women in love. Abi warned her of course, cautioned that while she'd been able to slip Emily and Sidney under the radar as a b-plot, making them the focus would be something else entirely.

There were meetings, so many meetings, where Serena had to justify her choice, her characters, where she had to plead for the importance of the storyline, of having the whole book be about two women. She tried not to make these pitch meetings personal, to hide the fact that her need to see this representation came so strongly from the lack of it in her own life. She wonders what her life might've been if she'd seen stories like Emily and Sidney growing up.

They'd managed it, in the end, gotten it to press on the condition that the book would only receive minimal press from the publisher, even that only negotiated on Serena's cache as a bestseller. Thankfully the lack of support doesn't seem to have negatively affected sales, Serena's fanbase and the queer female population of the internet spreading the word faster than an ad in _The Guardian_ ever could.

It's been a bit of a whirlwind, if Serena's honest, and she's been swept up in it all. It seems like only yesterday she went to a party in Stepney, dragged to it by her friend Sian ("There'll be writer types there, you'll have people to talk to. Besides, isn't it all about industry connections?"). She hadn't talked to any writers, hadn't made any connections with agents or publishers. Instead, she'd met a woman, beautiful and smart, who led her to a secluded bench, who pressed their lips together where no one could see. 

They'd talked there in the dark, in between lingering, increasingly passionate kisses, and at the end of the night Serena had taken her hand and followed her back to her flat, to her bed.

She told herself it was research for her books, that she needed to broaden her experiences for writing purposes. In the cold light of morning, she couldn't quite place the feeling that thrummed through her. It wasn't research, it wasn't clinical. She _liked_ it. It made her feel alive. 

Stepney stays with Serena, the memories linger in her mind when she writes. But now she has a new lead in her romantic imaginings: a dark-eyed woman with messy blonde hair. Serena keeps writing and writing her, sketching out a character that has no place in her books, but a firm and seemingly permanent place in her mind.

It’s something she’s done before, thinks every author does; pulls bits and pieces from friends, acquaintances, random encounters with strangers, uses them like building blocks to develop her characters, to make them feel real. It’s a skill she prides herself on, something that has been pointed to repeatedly as her mark in the industry.

There’s something about this woman, her tearful gratitude, her embarrassed, awkward presence. It makes Serena even more sure, more confident, that she made the right choice to push for the romantic storyline with Emily and Sidney. It makes her confident it’s a romance that will continue.

There’s more to it, though, a curiosity that doesn’t normally linger after an inspiring encounter. Serena finds herself not just building the character, but wondering about the woman herself. Spinning out stories about who she is, what brought her to the book signing. She almost regrets how busy it was, wishes there’d been time to have a real conversation.

It’s because of this feeling she can’t shake, her mind preoccupied with Bernie, that she finds her thoughts wandering while preparing dinner, chopping a tomato and coming to find she’s sliced into her hand, a sharp shock of pain shooting up her arm, deep enough that she knows she can’t stick a plaster over the cut and forget it.

Wrapping her bleeding hand up tight in a dish towel, she calls a cab to take her to the nearest ED, feeling foolish and a little woozy in the backseat.

The sight of a wet, blood stained towel is enough to get her seen to fairly quickly, moved to a bed in A&E, a nurse helping her elevate her hand, asking her basic questions as she fills out the infirm sheet on Serena’s behalf.

“Well, well, what have we here?” A familiar voice sounds, a hand reaching out to pull the curtain by the bed, and Serena can’t hide the gasp that escapes her when she sees the tell-tale mop of golden hair.

Bernie freezes at the foot of the bed, and Serena can only imagine what the nurse must think, the two of them gawking silently at one another, jaws dropped.

“Ah,” Bernie says finally, and Serena can’t help but smile - after so many imagined conversations with this woman, and then she appears in real life, inarticulate.

“Clumsy old me, chopped my hand instead of a tomato,” Serena says wiggling the fingers of her injured hand, immediately regretting the movement. 

“You’re not old,” Bernie mutters quickly, like she’s not even thinking.

Serena feels her cheeks warm, sees the nurse out of the corner of her eye, looking back and forth between them with wide eyes. “Perhaps not, but definitely clumsy. And with a ruined dish towel to prove it.” 

Her words seem to bring Bernie back to the moment. “Oh! Right, ah, let’s take a look at that.” She rattles off some orders to the nurse as she lifts Serena’s hand, peeling back the towel with gentle, steady hands. The touch of skin to skin makes a shudder move through Serena’s body. Bernie looks at her with concerned eyes. “Did I hurt you?” she asks, gentling her hands around Serena’s.

“No, no,” Serena says, shaking her head, the blush on her cheeks only deepening, and she ducks her gaze, looks down at her lap instead, where her uninjured hand sits, fingers clenched, a gesture she didn’t even realize she was making.

She forces herself to relax, to try and slow the rapid beating of her heart as Bernie examines the wound. The sight of all that blood is a bit much, and she distracts herself by studying Bernie closer than she could at the signing. Lets her eyes trace over her high cheekbones, the strong nose that would look out of place on most people, thin lips pursed slightly in concentration. She’s even more beautiful than Serena remembered, a fact that does nothing to help her sense of calm.

And then Bernie tilts her head just so, and their eyes meet. There’s no trace of the awkward shyness from before, no tears in her eyes, that’s all been replaced by the confidence of a doctor who has a course of action.

“Just a few stitches and you’ll be right as rain. I’ll see to it personally.” She says this half to Serena and half to the nurse who’s returned with supplies and smoothly manages to hide the momentary look of surprise on her face at Bernie’s pronouncement.

Serena gratefully swallows the painkiller the nurse hands her in a tiny plastic cup, washes it down with a sip of tepid water as Bernie pulls over a stool and an overhead light, snapping on her gloves once she has it all in place. She only winces a little at the injection, practically sighs in relief as the throbbing pain fades into numbness.

“Won’t feel a thing, Ms. Campbell, and then you can get your hands back to the important work they do,” Bernie says, the first acknowledgment of their previous meeting, of who Serena is. 

“We’re well acquainted enough for you to call me Serena, I should think. I don’t let just anyone hold my hand, you know.” Bernie’s cheeks pink a bit as she picks up the forceps, and Serena feels a swirl of warm satisfaction that she can’t put down to just the painkillers.

She has no interest in watching Bernie stitch up her hand and casts her eye instead to the messy part of Bernie’s hair, catches her breath at the slight tingling of Bernie’s fringe against her wrist as she bends over Serena’s palm. “Serena, then. First time getting sutures?”

Serena nods, then realizes Bernie isn’t looking at her. “Yes. I’ve had a broken bone or two but never a cut. You’re my first.”

Bernie looks up at that, eyes dark and twinkling beneath a quirked eyebrow, holds her gaze long enough that Serena coughs and looks away. “I’m normally much more careful, I assure you.”

“Especially with your hands, given your work,” Bernie says, attention returning to her delicate task, hands pulling and knotting the fine thread. “Something surgeons and writers have in common.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to say something about being good with your hands?” Serena arches a brow, her tone wry, and she sees Bernie duck her head to hide a smile, a blush.

“I, ah, I enjoyed your latest book,” Bernie says, looking up with a thin smile that makes her eyes squint a little.

“Did you?” Serena asks with a casual, studied disinterest. “What was your favorite part?” She feels the pressure of a slight squeeze from Bernie’s fingers, the thin smile turning into a bit of a smirk and she thinks that, despite gushing blood earlier this evening, it’s been a bit since she’s had _fun_ like this, witty banter, repartee with a worthy conversationalist

“Oh, probably when Emily went after Sidney at the train station.” The words are a little too studied, the blush on Bernie’s cheeks deepening, and Serena thinks it’s not the entire truth, that Bernie is holding something back.

“Hmmm,” is all she says as Bernie finishes, patting around the stitches with gauze, covering it with a skin-colored plaster.

“Uh,” she says, quickly writing something on a piece of paper sitting near Serena’s chart. “Here’s my number - call, if there’s, well, if there’s anything you need. If you have any questions.”

Serena takes the slip and looks down at it, Bernie’s handwriting bold and purposeful. “Questions about my non-threatening injury with dissolving stitches?” she asks, and knows she isn’t quite succeeding at hiding her smile.

It’s bold enough that it startles a laugh out of Bernie, an odd, restrained bark of a noise Serena immediately finds endearing. “What can I say? I have a vested interest in those hands, Ms. Campbell.” She winks, a quick flutter of her eye, and now it’s Serena’s turn to blush, warmth climbing up from her belly.

“What time do you get off?” Serena asks, her blush only heating up as she realizes the double meaning in her words. “Work, I mean. What time do you get off work?”

Bernie glances at the clock, a curious, bashful look crossing her face. “Um, twenty minutes ago?” She shrugs her shoulders a bit, glancing up through her fringe to meet Serena’s gaze.

Serena carefully folds the slip of paper with Bernie’s number written on it and slides it into the pocket of her trousers, meets Bernie’s eyes with a considering gaze. “Since I’ve kept you quite late, it seems, the least I can do is take you out for a drink in thanks?”

Bernie looks a little stunned at that, eyes wide, and Serena’s heart pounds in her ears, suddenly afraid she’s over stepped, misinterpreted what was happening. Then Bernie’s hand comes up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, face going soft and pleased, and Serena’s heart races for an entirely different reason.

“I’d like that.”

There’s a bit of awkwardness as they still have to finish things up with Serena’s chart and a prescription for pain medicine should she need it, and then Bernie begs off to change out of her scrubs. Serena finds a distinct pleasure in watching her walk away in those thin cotton trousers. She loiters by the nurse’s station, nowhere else really to wait, and feels the familiar and welcome flutter of anticipation take root in her gut. 

The flutter turns into full on butterflies when Bernie returns, scrubs discarded in favor of a soft looking jumper and a pair of skinny black jeans that Serena thinks should possibly be illegal. She only realizes she’s staring when Bernie clears her throat, a wry smile twisting her mouth.

“You do clean up well, as the cliche goes,” she says to cover her embarrassment. “I’m just thankful I didn’t spill blood all over my clothes, then there might be some worry at the pub.” 

They make their way to the doors and Serena feels a bit unsure of herself. She thinks of this as a date, feels certain she wants it to be a date, but now she’s suddenly doubtful that she’s been clear in her intentions. 

As the cold air of the outside world hits then, Serena fiddles with the pendant of her necklace, looks at Bernie out of the corner of her eye. “This is a date, right?” she blurts out before she can stop the words, and her embarrassment only increases when Bernie lets out a long, braying laugh.

Bernie must notice the way Serena’s spine stiffens, drawing in on herself slightly. She reaches out and catches Serena’s uninjured hand, tangling their fingers together, eyes bright in the light of the streetlamp. “I certainly hope so.”

Serena softens, lets her palm meet Bernie’s. “I took a cab here, so I’m afraid I can’t offer a ride anywhere - somewhere close where we can quench our thirst?” Again, there’s a double meaning that Serena didn’t quite intend, but as Bernie’s eyes darken, Serena feels certain the night will end in more than just a drink.

-

For all that Serena has created a fictional version of Bernie in her head, sketched out this character, tried to find a place for her, the imagined Bernie truly pales in comparison to the actual Bernie Wolfe. She is just so _real_ and human and everything Serena didn't know she wanted.

Bernie's shy at first, a bit of a puzzle for Serena to chip away at, to get her to open up, and once she does, Serena's curiosity only deepens. She wants to know everything about Bernie, could listen to her talk all night about her life, her travels.

She hopes, almost desperately, that Bernie finds her as fascinating, that it isn't just one-sided. She thinks back to the long lingering looks over wine at the pub by the hospital, the very first time. She thinks of the way Bernie pressed her against the brick wall outside, too impatient to wait for a good night kiss. She thinks of the first time she brought Bernie to her bed, the way her eyes darkened and sparked. Serena thinks, perhaps, Bernie might feel the same.

It's been ages since Serena has actually, properly dated anyone, but she knows with certainty that it's never been this _fun_ before. Bernie makes her laugh like no one else, whether they're tucked away in the corner of a dim restaurant or curled together on Serena's sofa, her own unrestrained honk always making Serena laugh even harder.

She also knows that no one has made her come the way Bernie does. What they each lack in experience, they more than make up for in enthusiasm, in willingness. Their first time in bed started with smoldering eyes and wetted lips, and it ended somewhere around the time Serena accidentally bit Bernie's tongue when her fingers hit just right, with everything in between only fueling their hunger for more. 

Serena's also discovered her own affinity for Bernie's body, can't seem to get enough of her whether they're in her bed, the alley behind the pub, or the backseat of Bernie's tiny car. She feels like a teenager, can hardly wait until the next time she can touch Bernie, continually amazed at how much pleasure she finds in making Bernie fall apart.

She's thinking this one morning after a particularly lengthy and vocal session that took them from the kitchen to the stairs to the bedroom. Bernie's face is tipped towards hers, blonde hair a halo around her head, small snores emanating from her aquiline nose. She can't resist it, can't stop herself, and draws a line with her forefinger, lightly, right from Bernie's forehead to the tip of her lips, her skin smooth, warm, lovely. Just like Bernie.

Her dark eyes blink open at the touch, still a bit hazy with sleep as she smiles, pressing a kiss against the pad of Serena's finger. "Good morning," she murmurs against Serena's skin, her low, rough voice making Serena squirm a bit.

Bernie stretches, dislodging the sheet that they'd pulled over themselves in the early morning hours, baring herself to Serena's hungry gaze. "Get any sleep last night or did you spend all your time staring?" Her voice is wry, still husky from sleep, the cold air hitting her breasts, nipples standing to attention, everything coalescing into a very distracting package.

Serena _hmpfs_ a bit primly, even as her eyes wander over all that pale skin, dotted here and there with moles and freckles. "I slept just fine, thank you very much. You're not that irresistible."

Bernie rolls her eyes at that, with a smile spreading her lips, and curls her body in again, angling herself towards Serena, placing a delicate kiss right against her clavicle, then another, higher on her neck, another against her pulse point, another at her earlobe, then her cheek, then her mouth, and Serena can't stop the grin that greets Bernie's lips, the deliciously awkward feeling of snogging while smiling. 

They tangle together in the middle of the mattress, soft and sleepy, hands wandering aimlessly, and Serena thinks she may never leave this bed again. The thought of being able to wake up like this, with Bernie, every day surfaces in her mind. It's something that's been occurring to her more and more, each time sending her heart flopping about in her chest and her stomach twisting in anxiety. It's only been a few weeks, a few weeks that have stretched into an eternity, and it's a bit horrifying to think that she might become the clingy girlfriend, the needy novelist who can't let her muse stray too far. 

She must stiffen a bit because Bernie pulls back. "All right?" she asks, and it's another thing that makes her special, how attuned they are to each other. 

"Yes, darling," she mutters against Bernie's lips, a quick peck. "All fine here." 

Serena can tell Bernie's not entirely convinced, but she lets it lay, presses one more kiss to Serena's bottom lip before swinging her legs out of bed. She stands and stretches, naked and glorious, announces she's going to take a quick shower as she crosses the room.

Bernie pauses in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder at a slack jawed Serena, giving her a sly wink.

"Care to join me?"

It takes a good deal of self control and finesse, but Serena manages to untangle herself from the sheets and avoid tripping as she all but launches herself after Bernie, pretending the smug smile that she can see on the other woman's face isn't one of the most erotic things she's ever seen. 

By the time the water heats up, they're kissing and laughing again, the morning light streaming through the frosted window. Bernie takes her hand and tugs her into the shower, and as the water sluices over them, Serena's last conscious thought is that this is the happiest she's ever been.

-

Bernie loves to watch Serena write. They sit at opposite ends of her dining room, Serena at a laptop, her fingers typing away, and Bernie just watches, chin resting in her hand, unable to really comprehend what it is like to have that creativity flowing from her. Sometimes Serena will look up, catch Bernie's eye and flush, like she's being caught out doing something bad, like her hand's been caught in the cookie jar. Bernie's asked before, asked what it is Serena's writing, and the only answer she gets is a very prim, "A book."

She never peeks as Serena work, is still invested enough in the worlds that she creates that Bernie doesn't want to spoil it, to see the words before Serena's ready to share them. But she feels like she knows what's happening by the expressions that cross Serena's face — a quirk of her eyebrow, teeth flashing white as they worry her bottom lip unconsciously, lips curling in a wicked smirk — telling Bernie how she's feeling. The expression Bernie likes seeing on Serena's face best is the one that tells her she's done for the day, that she's ready to go out to dinner, or be taken to bed. It's a sly look of invitation, and it makes Bernie's insides do cartwheels every time.

It's enchanting, and a part of Bernie still can't believe that this is her life. 

The fact that they met at all still feels so serendipitous, so lucky, so unlike anything that her life is. She has no earthly idea if there's a god or a heaven or anything of the sort, but has to imagine some sort of giant puppetmaster in the sky orchestrating their meeting. 

As the weeks pass by in a kind of golden haze, Bernie finds herself starting to worry. Because this _isn't_ how her life has been. She's never had this kind of happiness, this contentment, and she can't entirely rid herself of the voice in the back of her mind that whispers it can't possibly last, that she'll ruin it somehow.

Bernie can't help but remember the hurt look on Marcus' face, the anger in his eyes, the betrayal he felt. She couldn't forgive herself if she was the cause for those same looks on Serena's face. She hasn't spoken to her kids in months, she doesn't think she could take losing Serena too, thinks she might drift away without anything to keep her tied down.

She tries not to ask too much of Serena, to enjoy this while it lasts, reminds herself that they're just having fun. Serena hasn't said anything either, after all, and Bernie doesn't want to be the one to broach the subject of just what this is, for fear of driving Serena away.

So she continues finding the places in Holby with the best wine selections, tries to surprise Serena with a new Shiraz she hasn't had before, makes it her mission to hear her name groaned from Serena's throat at least five times a week, seven if she's got a day off. She wants to make the most of the time she has with Serena, however long that may be.

They go to dinner at their favorite restaurant one evening, just down the way from Bernie's flat, but things feel off kilter. Serena's been uncharacteristically quiet all night, fingers worrying her pendant, her eyes never quite meeting Bernie's as she gives monosyllabic answers to her attempts at conversation. By the time the entrees arrive, Bernie's entirely convinced that Serena is going to end things, and she has to focus to keep her breathing steady as her heart hammers in her chest.

Serena just pokes at her food, prods her risotto with her fork, and finally Bernie can't keep it in anymore. "What is it?" she says, the words expelling from her lips. "Just say whatever it is you want to say!"

Serena's eyes go wide, mouth opening in what Bernie thinks is going to be a glib denial, but she catches herself, shoulders slumping with a sigh.

"Bernie, I- well, you see I heard from my editor the other day. The publisher is throwing some fancy to-do that I'm apparently required to attend, not that she can give me any good reason for it." Her words are tripping together and Bernie's brow furrows in confusion. "Anyway, it's going to be terribly dull, and I'm sure you don't want to, but I was wondering if you would go. With me."

"Is that...is that all?" Bernie asks, knowing her voice is tremulous, knowing she is on the verge of laughing and crying, doesn't know which will happen first. 

Serena's eyes look as if they're about to spill over in tears and she nods. The look of abject sadness on her face is enough to make the laughter subside, and Bernie reaches for Serena's hand.

"Do you actually want me to go to this terribly dull fancy to-do with you?" she asks, running her thumb across Serena's knuckles, and Serena nods mutely. "Then of course I will."

"Really?" Serena looks gobsmacked, and Bernie wonders if maybe she isn't the only one who's been worried about asking too much. She smiles, giving Serena's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Really."

Serena practically sags in relief, her hand going slightly limp in Bernie's. "I thought...I thought you wouldn't want to. It's just going to be so boring and you'll have to dress up and you won't know anyone, and-" Bernie brings a finger to Serena's lips, hushing her words.

"You've already convinced me, no need to lay it on any thicker," she says with a grin. "Besides, I'll be there, so you'll have fun." She says it with more confidence than she feels, still riding high on the fact that their relationship is not ending, and at the prospect of seeing Serena in a fancy dress.

"Thank you." Some of the sparkle returns to Serena's eyes, and Bernie shivers at the feel of her tongue flicking out against her fingertip. "And I do promise to make it worth your while."

"Well that's settled then," Bernie says, moving back against her chair, is relieved when Serena takes a large bite of the meal in front of her, her eyelashes fluttering in pleasure, a goddess of enjoyment. She rolls the rice in her mouth, her tongue flicking out again to get a speck of sauce from above her lip.

"Wait," she says, when she's swallowed, "what did you think I was going to say?"

"Hmm?" Bernie says, casting her eyes down, trying to play for innocence, knowing all the while Serena won't buy it.

"You were so worried. What did you think I was going to say?"

Despite her very fervent wish, the fire alarm doesn't go off at that moment, and no one runs screaming from the kitchen as a distraction. "I, uh, I thought maybe you were done with me."

Serena is looking at her like she's grown a second head and Bernie feels heat climbing the back of her neck, her long fingers fidgeting with the napkin in her lap.

"Done...with...you?" Serena says the words slowly, like she's hearing them for the first time. "Darling, I - no." She looks like she has something else she wants to say, like there are words she just isn't sure how to express.

Relief and joy bloom in Bernie's chest, leave her feeling like a fool to have assumed the worst. "Right. Good." She clears her throat a bit and reaches for her wine, the words she really wants to say lodged behind the lump that's appeared there. "I'm glad to hear it."

-

Serena is right: the fancy event hosted by her publishers is boring. It’s not exactly gratifying to be correct, but at least the wine is free and flowing. She's on her second glass of red and if she hears the phrase "distribution figures" one more time, she thinks she might be forced to scream. 

But Bernie was right too - having her here does make it more fun. She's been whispering barbed comments about the people in the room in Serena's ear all night until she's biting her lip to hold back the laughter that wants to burst out of her. 

The sight of Bernie, too, is a gift all its own. She's looked nice enough on their dates, scrubbed up and clean, but this is something else altogether. Long legs in tailored pants, a fitted blazer, the barest suggestion of cleavage, small pearl drops hanging from her ears, hair twisted up showing every inch of that long, elegant neck. Serena thinks that might be where she kisses first, when they're done here.

She thinks Bernie approves of her outfit as well if the darkness of her eyes and the way her tongue wet her lips when she answered the door are anything to go by. A blue floral dress that hugs her waist, dips low at her chest, the fabric is thin enough that she can feel the heat of Bernie's hand where it rests on her lower back, a constant reminder of her proximity. 

If anyone has made note of the fact that she and Bernie are standing quite close, that they can't seem to stray more than a few inches apart, no one has made a peep about it. Serena thinks Abi might say something, but she keeps her lips buttoned too. Perhaps they've all expected something like this, after the latest novel in her series. 

Their luck runs out eventually, though, once the open bar has been thoroughly taken advantage of. Ric Griffin, an old friend and sometimes competitor of Serena's, wanders over with a glint in his eye that immediately makes her nervous.

"Serena, you haven't introduced me to your friend."

She can feel Bernie stiffen, her hand drop from Serena's waist. There's a part of her that wants to brush it off, to just introduce Bernie as nothing more than an acquaintance, but she can practically envision the hurt in her eyes, the distance that might form between them by that simple choice. So she takes a deep breath, and decides to take a leap of faith when she says, "This is my girlfriend, Bernie Wolfe."

The words make her flush, the first time she's said them aloud, and she's proud of herself for not stuttering over them. There's a long moment where no one says anything, Ric and Bernie both staring with wide eyes, and Serena has to gently nudge Bernie into action so she holds out her hand to gently shake Ric's. 

"Lovely to meet you, Bernie. I've been wondering when Serena was going to get out there again." She can tell from Ric's grin that he wants to ask everything, knows she'll probably be getting an invitation out for a quiet drink with Ric in the near future.

He moves away to continue making the rounds, not before congratulating Serena on her success and patting her shoulder with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smirk. 

She turns to look at Bernie who is still looking poleaxed, slightly stiff and frozen. "I - I didn't know how else to introduce you," Serena says, her voice a little shaky, for the first time. When Bernie still doesn't respond, Serena supposes the least she can do is try to make Bernie laugh. "It seemed a little inappropriate to introduce you as my _lover_." She lets her tongue linger over the word, and finally gets a smile from Bernie, one that lets her know Bernie is still alive, still cognizant of the world around her.

"No, it's fine. It's...nice." Bernie ducks her head a little shyly, her eyes squinting in the way they do when she's truly pleased, and Serena's heart starts beating again. "Not sure I'm young enough to be anyone's girlfriend, though."

"My...lady caller?" Serena tries, and Bernie snorts. "My mature woman friend?" Again, a scoff. "My female paramour?" Bernie's shoulder bumps against Serena's, and it feels like the world is good again. "You're more than just...anything. There's no ‘just’ about you." Again, Serena doesn't know quite how to say what she wants to say, thinks at least there's less of a danger in scaring Bernie off at this point. "I don't know if we need a label for anything, but I just want you to know what - what you mean to me." Her hand goes up to her neck, fussing with her necklace, worrying her skin. 

Color rises in Bernie's cheeks, twin spots of pink, dark eyes wide and sparkling above. She leans close, the ends of her shaggy fringe brushing against Serena's cheek. "You mean a lot to me too, Serena." She feels long fingers tangle with her own and squeezes back, swallowing against the sudden emotion welling in her chest.

“I wish we could just leave,” Serena says, trying to keep the plaintive tone from her voice. “Unfortunately it’s probably a bit gauche to exit a function in my honor without addressing the crowd.” She squeezes Bernie’s hand, pulls it up close to her chest, right by her heartbeat, their joined fingers just an extension of the organ inside of her, love — because that’s what this is — spilling out.

“Well then,” Bernie smiles, luminous in the low light of the room, “you should get up there. The sooner you speak, the sooner I can take you home.” She tugs their joined hands her way, leans down to press a soft kiss against Serena’s fingertips, lips brushing the fading pink scar that brought them together.

Serena nods, unsure of what words she would say if she opened her mouth to speak and makes her way to the podium, snagging Abi on the way, knows the rules of these sorts of things; the rote introduction from the editor and tepid applause, everyone just wanting to go back to sipping wine in peace.

She flicks through her notecards, pauses at the very last one, thumbing the corner thoughtfully as she waits for Abi to call her up. 

“...our guest of honor, author of the first bestselling LGBTQ romance novel, S.W. Campbell.”

Serena glances back over her shoulder as she steps forward, catches Bernie’s eye from across the room. Clapping enthusiastically, Bernie gives a cheeky wink that buoys Serena, propels her onto the podium.

She can see Bernie standing in the back as she moves to speak, sees the corners of her mouth tip up in a smile. It gives her voice strength as she begins to talk, to tell the story of how it is that she came to write the characters, to create their romance, to move towards redefining the genre. And then she gets to that last notecard.

“A woman is nowhere without her editor, and I would be lost without Abi. Many thanks, always. And to the person who showed me just how important these stories can be, endless gratitude. Thank you, Bernie.” She lifts her glass in a toast and makes her way through the crowd.

The applause have just died out, replaced by the murmur of cocktail party chatter, when she reaches Bernie’s side. Her dark eyes are glistening, filled with emotion that makes Serena’s breath catch.

“I hope that was all right?”

“More than,” Bernie says, kissing Serena straight on the mouth with no hesitation, her tongue flicking against Serena’s lips, one hand sliding back into the short strands of her hair. When they part, Serena’s lipstick is half on Bernie’s mouth, and they’re both slightly out of breath.

“So...” Serena says, trailing off, tilting her head toward the door and Bernie laughs, honks loudly enough that people turn to look. Serena feels no embarrassment, no shame, as she pulls Bernie along after her, makes their way to the car.

Before Serena can pull the handle, Bernie presses her up against the door, kissing her slow and deep and thorough, until they’re both short of breath, and Serena feels almost dizzy.

“Thank you,” Bernie whispers, still close enough that Serena can feel the slight movement of her lips against her own.

They both have their baggage, the scars they carry with them beneath the skin. Bernie hides hers well, tosses her hair, sits quietly, smiles sadly, but sometimes there’s a moment where Serena gets a hint of the damage that’s been done, of the reminder that someone, somewhere out there, made Bernie Wolfe feel like she wasn’t special enough to be recognized, not important enough to be thanked, not significant enough for recognition. It makes her want to raze the world, to tear it apart, makes her want to hold Bernie close and let her know the impact she’s had on her life. 

Instead she kisses Bernie once, twice, small pecks, and smiles, ducking her head and opening the car door.

-

Bernie drops her pen with a sigh, closes the folder of the patient file she’s been reading over and over for the last twenty minutes, absorbing none of the information. She should be focused on finishing her paperwork, on getting out of work miraculously on time, but her mind keeps wandering to Serena.

She’d lain awake in Serena’s comfortable bed after they came back from the party, after she’d stripped that beautiful dress from Serena’s body and tried to express every one of her swirling feelings with her hands and mouth. There in the dark, watching Serena sleep peacefully, that confusing riot of emotion finally settled, clarified.

There have only been a few moments of truly crystalline feelings in Bernie’s mind. She remembers the surety she felt when she signed up for the RAMC, the confidence in her heart as she dotted the i of Berenice. She remembers holding her children in her arms the very first moments of their lives and the beautiful combination of terror and hope wrapped up in those bundles.

And now this, the bubble of love that sits in her chest, the way it floats into her throat at the sight of Serena’s quiet exhalations, the fluttering of her closed eyelashes. Love. It’s so simple and yet Bernie thinks she’s never felt this before in her life, not ever. Love.

She wants to tell Serena, feels the words rest heavy on the tip of her tongue every time she looks at her, but she’s afraid of mucking it all up. Marcus always teased that Bernie had no way with words, no facility in expressing her emotions. He played them off as jokes, but Bernie could always hear the criticism behind the veneer.

Bernie rubs at her forehead, wonders when the specter of Marcus will ever be washed from the shore of her life, when the cresting wave that is Serena will wipe the sand clean. She signs her name to the bottom of a chart, then another, squinting her eyes to focus.

Glancing at the clock just as it ticks over to five o’clock, Bernie give in, shoves the papers in front of her aside. “What’s the point of being consultant if you can’t delegate every once in a while?” she says aloud, as much to convince herself as anything, and goes in search of an F1 to at least finish everything that doesn’t require a consultant’s signature.

The porch lamp is on when she pulls up in front of Serena’s house, spilling warm light down the walk. Bernie spends more nights here than at her own flat now, thinks there’s not much of a competition between the two when one of them contains Serena.

She steps through the door and the delicious scent of food washes over her, garlic and spices setting her stomach growling. 

“Hiya,” Serena calls from the kitchen, the sound of her voice so familiar and lovely, so welcoming that Bernie never thinks twice about using her key to Serena’s house, never worries she’s an imposition, not when she’s greeted with such a warm sound.

Leaning in the doorway, Bernie grins at the sight of Serena in front of the stove in her bare feet, stirring a pot of something while she sways along to the music coming from the iPod tucked in the corner.

“Something smells good.”

“Mm, does it?” Serena asks, turning over her shoulder, dropping a sly wink that makes Bernie’s heart drop out of her chest. “Why don’t you come over here and tell me if it tastes as good as it smells?”

Bernie crosses the room and wraps her arms around Serena’s waist from behind, almost sighing in pleasure at the familiar warmth of her. Serena lifts the spoon, a hand cupped beneath to catch any drops, and Bernie stretches over her shoulder, takes a bite of the rich, spicy curry.

She chases the flavor with a kiss to Serena’s lips, red wine in her mouth and a smile on her face. “Not nearly as good as you,” she says, nuzzling into Serena’s neck, thinking she could happily spend her life as Serena’s sweater if it meant she got to stay here, wrapped around this woman.

Serena chuckles against her mouth and turns in Bernie’s arms, her fingers finding their favorite spot twined in Bernie’s hair. Her tongue flicks against Bernie’s lips, then slides past them, and Bernie has just enough presence of mind to flick off the burner.

The spoon clatters down onto the stovetop, but it’s the last thing on Bernie’s mind as she skims her hands down Serena’s sides, her fingers teasing at the hem of her blouse, just fluttering against the bare skin beneath it. She moans slightly as Serena pulls her even closer, their bodies arching together, the press of their breasts intoxicating, a feeling so different to being with men, one she finds she loves, can’t get enough of, the way a woman’s body feels next to hers — the way Serena’s body feels against hers.

Tightening her grip on Serena’s waist, Bernie shifts them to the side, tugging until Serena gets the message and pushes up to sit on the counter beside the stove. Her eyes sparkle as Bernie steps between her thighs, hands again finding their way to the soft skin of Serena’s waist, kissing her at this new angle.

It’s nice, leaning up to kiss her, being trapped between those lovely thighs, and Bernie wishes she could subsist solely on a diet of Serena’s kisses. She’s thinking of all the ways to devour the other woman when she feels the buzz of her mobile in her back pocket, pressed tight against her bum in those skinny jeans. She ignores it, continues on her mission of kissing Serena senseless, but the buzzing doesn’t stop, just grows more insistent. 

“Never should’ve gotten one of these when I left the army,” she mutters, stepping back to pull her phone out. Serena pouts a bit as Bernie fumbles the device from her pocket. “Wolfe,” she says into the phone distractedly, eyes fixed where Serena’s fingers are slowly undoing the top button of her blouse.

“Mum?” It’s Cam’s voice, she recognizes it instantly, though she hasn’t heard it in months.

Her son, calling her of his own volition. She squeezes her eyes shut, knows she can’t be unfocused during this, even as she feels Serena’s feet come up behind her knees, reeling her back in. 

“Hi,” she says back, a little breathlessly.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” he asks, and Bernie hates that he asks that, hates that he only knows her as a busy mum, a woman who doesn’t have time for her children.

“Not at all,” she says, eyes still closed even as Serena leans in to place a wet kiss against her neck. She holds up a hand to Serena, tries to make her face a combination of apologetic and serious, while also promising that their fooling around will continue. Fortunately, Serena seems to understand the gesture, releases her grip to let Bernie pace across the kitchen.

“How are you?” she asks, not even sure where to start with this unexpected opportunity. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” Cam says, “just realized I hadn’t talked to you in a bit. My birthday’s coming up and it just...” He trails off and Bernie wishes she was with him in person, not that she’d know what to do there either. She’s never been known for her maternal gestures.

“Of course it is, sweetheart,” she says, the endearment coming easily, how she always referred to him in letters when he was young. “Did you - could I - I mean, would you like to meet up? I could buy you dinner.”

“Really?” The surprise in his voice cuts deep, but she thinks they have to start somewhere. “I’d like that. Maybe Charlotte can join us, if she’s free.”

Bernie swallows, her throat suddenly thick. “That, uh, that would be wonderful.” It’s almost too good to believe, her children finally reaching out. For the first time the rift between them seems smaller, like something that could eventually be knit back together.

“I, um. There’s someone...could my friend Serena come too?” It feels suddenly, desperately important that her children meet Serena, that they like her. She thinks they might even like her better than their own mum — she’s a damn sight more charming, at any rate.

“Your friend?” Cam’s voice is laced with humorous disbelief and she can hear the family resemblance in his tone, warming her heart. She feels Serena bat at her shoulder in response to the label too.

“She’s, ah, she’s more than that,” Bernie says, uncomfortable with the idea of having to talk about her dating life with her children, something she’s never had to do before. Cam laughs, then, and Bernie feels a bit more at ease, even if she’s the butt of the joke.

“Of course, Mum. I’d love to meet your _friend_.” He layers the word with so much suggestion she can practically see him winking, knows that it’ll be forever before he stops teasing her about this. After months of silence and uncertainty, even the thought of being wound up by her son fills her with a fierce, heady joy.

“Oh shove off,” she says, but she’s smiling and when she looks up, she sees Serena smiling back at her, warm right to the toes at the sight of this woman smiling at her own happiness. “Next week, yeah? Text me the address and I’ll meet you there?”

Cam confirms and they say their goodbyes. Bernie spends a long moment staring at the blank screen of her phone, a dopey grin stretched across her face and tears prickling her eyes.

“Cheating on me with someone else?” Serena asks with a cheeky grin and Bernie thinks she knows exactly who was on the phone, thinks she could probably reconstruct the other half of the conversation with very little trouble. Instead of answering, Bernie just moves back between Serena’s legs and kisses her soundly, her hands cupping Serena’s cheeks, thinking this might be one of the few perfect moments of her life.

-

Serena sighs as Bernie checks for phone for what be the twentieth time since they sat down at the little bistro. They’re early — more to distract Bernie from her constant fidgeting than anything — but that hasn’t stopped her from double checking the time, the address, if Cam or Charlotte has texted, every few seconds.

The one blessing has been that Bernie’s nerves have given Serena a focus for her own. She’s good with new people, with strangers, but meeting Bernie’s children is something else, feels monumental in a way that sets butterflies swirling in her stomach.

She reaches out to still Bernie’s hand, their fingers touching. “They’ll be here,” she says with a confident squeeze, and as if she manifested them with her words, the door to the restaurant opens and in walk two young people who are undeniably related to Bernie Wolfe. 

Bernie stands awkwardly, didn’t push her chair back far enough, and Serena feels her stomach flip flop as she watches the three people approach each other like strangers, unsure of what greeting is appropriate.

There’s a long silence that cements in Serena’s mind that anyone with Bernie’s genes can’t be known for their gregariousness, and she breaks it by standing too, leaning forward to say, “Happy Birthday, Cam.”

He looks her over appraisingly, glancing back and forth between her and his mother. “Thanks. You must be Serena.” His sister stands a half step behind, hands deep in her pockets in a posture that’s all Wolfe.

She holds out her hand. “Serena Campbell. Pleasure to meet you.” Bernie looks between them like she’s at Wimbledon and it’s only when Serena gently invites them all to sit that she stirs into action. 

She lets her hand rest against Bernie’s thigh when they’re seated, trying to be a warm, affirming presence for her. Charlotte is opposite Serena and keeps darting glances at her from under her lashes, though she’s quiet as her brother and Serena finds herself filling in the gaps in conversation.

Serena knows how worried Bernie is that this truce won’t hold. They’d stayed awake late the night before, curled together in bed, and she’d held Bernie close as she spilled out her fears, the pain of missing her kids. Serena sees the same pain in Cam and Charlotte, can read on both of their faces their desire to reconnect, even through their uncertainty of how to achieve such a thing.

“How’s school going, Lottie?” Bernie asks, almost immediately abashed at the use of the nickname her daughter hasn’t used in years. Serena can see the blatant desperation pasted across Bernie’s face, the deep desire for this to go well. She rubs her thumb against Bernie’s leg and looks to Charlotte.

“It’s good,” Charlotte says slowly, carefully. “I’m studying English literature. Dad says I’ll never get a job with that degree.” She laughs, though it’s sharp and self-conscious, and Serena sees a flash of the damage Marcus strews in his wake.

“Plenty of jobs for a smart girl with a good head on her shoulders,” Serena jumps in, feeling a surprising maternal instinct to smooth things over, to reassure Charlotte. The girl’s cheeks go pink at the compliment and Bernie shoots her a look of such gratitude it makes Serena’s chest ache.

“Cam, your mum tells me you’re going into the family business.”

He looks down at his plate with a sheepish smile, like he’s proud of himself, unused to the attention, unsure of how to accept it. “Just starting out, getting my F1 placement any day now. I’m just hoping we don’t end up at the same hospital,” he says, smiling a little hesitantly at Bernie to let her know he’s joking. “Can you imagine working with your own mum? I’d never hear the end of it!”

Bernie’s got pride all over her face now and Serena feels so privileged to be here, to witness the start of this puzzle being put back together. “Or I’d toss you all the best surgeries and you’d get the training of a lifetime,” Bernie says, smiling too, and Cam laughs, hints of that goose honk at the edges of the sound.

“Are you a doctor too?” Cam asks, looking toward Serena with those big brown eyes, so very like Bernie’s. She laughs and holds up her hands.

“Goodness, no! No, I leave all that to this one.” She nudges Bernie with her elbow, drawing a smile from her. “I’m actually a writer.”

Charlotte gasps and all eyes at the table turn to her.

“You- _you’re_ S.W. Campbell?” she asks incredulously, looking at them with wide-eyed awe.

Serena glances at Bernie, sees her own confusion mirrored there. “Yes, actually, I am. How did you know?”

She thinks Charlotte goes even redder, if that’s possible. “I, uh, I used to borrow your books. When mum was away,” she says more to the tabletop than to any of them.

Bernie colors at that too, and Serena thinks of a shelf full of her stories, the ones that led Bernie to the truth of herself, and how it must feel to know your daughter’s read them too. 

“Bit of racy reading, eh?” Serena asks, dropping a wink at Cam, who smirks as the other two women at the table flush even darker.

“You could make those books the focus of your degree, Charlotte, primary source right here at lunch with you!” Cam pushes at his sister’s shoulder and she buries her face in her hands, the peak embarrassment of a daughter in front of her mum. 

Bernie looks just as embarrassed as her daughter, flushed right to the roots of her hair, and suddenly Serena wants nothing more than to lean over and kiss her. She settles instead for another firm squeeze to Bernie’s leg, stroking her thumb back and forth against the denim.

Bernie fidgets at the touch and Serena resists the urge to move her hand higher, to rub more firmly. “Always glad to meet my fans,” she says to break the tension and that gets a small chuckle from Charlotte, a choked sort of snort from Bernie.

With the ice thoroughly broken, the rest of lunch goes well. Serena spends much of it watching Bernie watch her children. She knows Bernie thinks she was never demonstrative enough with her kids, that she never showed them the affection they needed. You would have to be blind not to see the love and affection blazing out of her, Serena thinks, sees it practically radiating from Bernie like sunlight.

When they get up to leave, Serena can’t quite contain her impulse to hug Cam and Charlotte good-bye, has never been one to restrain herself where affection is concerned. “It was so nice to meet you,” Cam whispers into Serena’s ear before they pull away, “she’s happier with you.”

It’s as much a blessing as Serena could ever hope to receive, and it’s her turn to flush deep red, happiness coloring her skin, warming her from tip to tail. Charlotte is stiffer as she hugs Serena goodbye but still smiles as she tucks a hank of blonde hair behind her ear. 

She moves a few steps away, giving Bernie her privacy as she says goodbye to her children, idly flicking through her phone to give the appearance of blasé busyness.

Bernie moves to wrap an arm around Serena’s shoulder as they walk away, and Serena nuzzles against her shoulder a bit, inhaling the scent of her. She feels a kiss pressed to her hair, hears Bernie whisper a soft “Thank you.”

“For what?” Serena asks, leaning back to look into Bernie’s eyes.

“For coming along. For being so wonderful with them. For...everything.”

“I love you.” The words burst out of her and Serena claps a hand to her mouth because she didn’t think she’d say the words, not like this, not on the sidewalk outside of a restaurant she can’t even remember the name of, with a shamefully short wine list. Bernie stops, her arm dropping and she faces Serena.

“What?” she says, her voice hoarse, disbelieving and for the first time in such a long time, Serena isn’t sure how to read the other woman.

“I - I love you,” she repeats, because she can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube and they both know what she’s said. “Sorry to...to spring it on you like this and you don’t have to - if you don’t -“ 

She’s silenced with a kiss, Bernie’s mouth on hers. 

“I love you too,” she whispers against Serena’s lips. They’re both smiling, and Serena feels tears pricking at her eyelids. She never knew happiness would feel this buoyant.

“Get a room!” Cam’s voice filters back down the street and they both dissolve into laughter, muffled by their unbroken kiss.

_**one year later** _

Bernie steps into the bookshop, one she hasn’t been on the inside of in more than a year. It’s shockingly similar to the last time she was here, a large poster with Serena’s smiling face, though her hair is shot through with more grey than it was before. There’s an assemblage of women gripping books, stacks of Serena’s latest novel in artful piles around the shop.

This time Bernie avoids the queue, stands off to the side and watches Serena with a smile. She can see how much Serena’s readers love her, thinks back to how she’d felt in the same situation, never realizing how much that one moment was going to change her life.

Serena’s smile is incandescent, her laughter genuine as she responds to something a fan has said to her. Bernie’s breath catches in her throat as she sees that elegant neck bend, as her graceful hand puts pen to paper. She’s heart-stoppingly lovely, and Bernie never quite gets used to it.

As the line dwindles, Bernie grabs a book from the top of the nearest pile. Two women embrace on the cover, staring longingly into each other’s eyes. One is wearing a military uniform, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and it still makes Bernie flush. She remembers her surprise when the art came in, along with Serena’s laughing claim that she’d wanted to just use a picture of Bernie, but feared there’d be some sort of “lesbian stampede” at the bookseller’s.

She flicks the cover open, turns to the dedication page. In black and white letters, plain as day, it reads, “For Bernie, the woman who showed me love stories can come true.”

Bernie wonders if she’ll ever be able to fully accept her luck in finding Serena, finding the kind of love she’d always thought was only fiction. Regardless, she’s determined to spend the rest of her life expressing her love and gratitude for Serena in every way she can.

Stepping up to the table, Bernie sets down the book. Serena looks up and her face breaks into a wide smile.

“And who can I make this out to?” she asks coyly, and Bernie laughs, laughs even though she feels a wellspring of emotion at how different her life is now from when they were in this position before, how far they’ve come together. She bites her lip, searching for the perfect thing to say.

“Just make it out to Bernie. Your number one fan.” 


End file.
